Points of Interest
by Kokolo
Summary: Motif challenge. Pairing challenge: Gregstophe. Slash - Certain points of interest concerning the relations between a rough French mercenary and composed British mastermind. Slightly AU. Oneshot.


**Short warning for those who don't read before clicking:  
-This contains Ze Mole x Gregory slash. Gregstophe, if you will. I'm unsure if to mark it AU or not, considering what happened to Mole, but I've overlooked it. They're teenagers/early twenties in this.  
-It also contains french, all of which has the possibility of being incorrect because I can't even pretend to speak it. Please feel free to chew me out for incorrect french.  
**  
**Enjoy.**

* * *

"Stupid American pigs."

Christophe DeLorn, aka Ze Mole, lounged outside the school. Having been deprived of his knife, his shovel, and all his other implements of self-defense, all he could do was lounge against the wall and smoke to defy the powers that pinned him. First God, then his mother, than public school. How low could he sink before he became a worthless sheep like the rest of them?

Mole snorted and kicked the ground. He had the alley to himself, at least. Those black-clad children had foolishly thought they could claim it. They talked endlessly about pain and suffering. Christophe had enlightened them to what true pain, true suffering could be. They had fled, crying and scared, pissing their pants with fear. Ze Mole had laughed and taken their cigarettes, claiming his small victory amidst his endless fights.

The school bell rang and Christophe snarled, lighting up again. Those filthy children would be pouring out again, taking up his space, _talking_ to him. As if they could understand. They hadn't a clue. What could they possibly have to say to him that would matter at all?

"_Avez-vous une lumière?_"

The dirty head was raised, burning embers falling from filthy lips. A man stood before him – he must have been a mere man. God would not favor him so to send him an angel, that cock sucking whore bitch. He certainly looked the part – blond hair, stunning blue eyes, slim but hiding strength Mole had been trained to spot – an Aryan prince had there ever been one. Christophe took a certain, twisted pleasure in seeing the beautiful boy stand on American soil and speak in his mother tongue. Perfect lips spoke perfect French, asking him again.

"…_Oui_."

O//////O

"Kees me."

Gregory looked up at him, pushing blond hair from his eyes. He had been reading from a book – whether it was important to his current work Christophe was not sure. He had a sneaking suspicions it was the book that was due to be read at the end of the week – and as such ignored it for its text and favored it simply for the sound of Gregory's voice and flawless enunciations. He had stopped for a sparing moment, for just a breath when Christophe had felt his lips betray his tongue.

Mole snorted, dropping into his hole. He shook his head. This pulse in his chest had made him say stupid things before – certainly Gregory would be used to this by now. The Brit had often joked he needed to think before insulting. But now he was quiet, staring calmly. Christophe scratched at his dirt-covered head, ignoring (or attempting to ignore) the bright blue eyes boring into his back.

"Christophe?"

"_Oui?_"

"Come back up here."

"Can't you zee ah am busy?"

"Come. Here."

The mercenary snorted, hurling his beloved shovel into the earth. His fingers itched for another cigarette, but Gregory had lifted them and had taken much liberty, sucking up most of the cartons contents while he read. He was lucky Mole liked him...

"_Pardon?_" Christophe grunted sweetly, lifting himself out of the hole and balancing on his arms.

"Come closer."

"Beech." He grunted and hoisted himself up further, his boots digging into the dirt walls for support.

Gregory stared at him, half smiling. He neatly closed the book he had been reading and withdrew the cigarette he had stolen from his lips. He offered it to Ze Mole, who took a hearty drag as it was pressed to his mouth. He growled softly in satisfaction, letting the smoke dribble from his nose as he exhaled. Gregory took the final drag, stubbing it out on the ground. Before all the smoke had left Ze Mole's lungs, Gregory had leaned forward and pressed his lips to dirt-caked ones, robbing him of the remaining second hand smoke.

"_Bon, non?_" Gregory asked, remaining close to the suspended mercenary.

Rather than voice his response, Christophe stared at the smiling blond Brit, waiting for a moment. He shifted his one hand, balancing his weight on it, lifting the other to wrap it around the blonds' neck, digging filthy hands into gold curls and dragging him forward. Gregory's clean face pressed hard against Christophe's dirty one, and yet he voiced no complaint.

Not when Mole gripped his hair. Not when Mole bit his lip roughly to get them to open. Not when Mole's tongue shoved its way in, kissing the Brit with all he could. Not even when Mole let a short, clipped moan escape into the other mans mouth.

He only protested once the mercenary pulled back, his arm shaking and digging into the earth. Gregory repeated his question, panting and looking half dazed.

"…_Oui._"

O//////O

"_Mon Dieu- Gregory_!"

The Frenchman grunted, his teeth sinking into the pale flesh. The body below him jerked and tried to stifle its cry, gasping hoarsely. It collapsed, moaning again when the heavy, heated body fell on top of him. Christophe opened his eyes, running his dirty hands through sweat dampened locks of blond, leaving brown streaks. Sweat, sex, and earth- Christophe could hardly keep from shivering as all the familiar, overpowering scents intermingled with that of his lover.

"_Je t'aime, mon cher._" The Mole murmured, kissing his shoulder.

Gregory hummed, succumbing to the mercenary's gentle attack. Christophe was always rather complacent after sex, regardless of how rough and bloody he had been a few moments before. The complete change in character seemed lost on him, however. Any mention of it outside of the bedchamber had the Frenchman blinking owlishly at him before vehemently denying his ability to be 'soft' as such. Regardless, Gregory knew, and he was all to glad to exploit this momentary lapse in good sense.

"I gather it was good for you, then." Gregory purred, his voice ruined from screaming his lovers name. He would have spoken in French to entice the mercenary, however at this particular moment he seemed hard pressed to do anything but lie there.

"I love you." Gregory whispered.

"And ah love you too, _mon ange._"

"Do you really?" the Englishman teased, "I would have never guessed. Kiss me again-"

Ze Mole smirked and kissed the smiling lips, his grimy hands roaming over heated skin. Gregory made a few soft noises, arching his back. Mole growled and nipped his neck, burring his face in the scented skin. He breathed in deeply, happily pawing at the lithe body. He left his mark in dirt and blood, all while Gregory mewled and rasped his name, declaring his love and desire for the mercenary while his body stirred to life. Christophe could only grin.

"…_Oui_."

* * *

French Translations (Courtesy of my Mac translator and Liz, my crazy leetle french friend):  
**Avez-vous une lumière?** = Do you have a light?  
******Oui** = yes**  
Pardon?** = What? (politely, according to Liz - though Mole is being a snarky bastard in this case)  
**Bon, non?** = Good, no?  
**Mon Dieu** = My God  
**Je t'aime, mon cher** = I love you, my dear  
**Mon ange** = My angel**  
**  
**Thank you for reading :)**


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